


For a Good Shot, Call Tim

by somethingclever



Category: Justified
Genre: Accidental Drug Use, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Domestic Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Abuse, Justice is meted out to those deserving, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, nothing is very graphic but there's violence and swearing, something satisfies me about abusers being punished, tim whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-13 21:29:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11768760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingclever/pseuds/somethingclever
Summary: For a good time, though, you should call Raylan.Raylan gets more of an eyeful of his coworker than he'd expected, and Tim gets more of a lungful of heroin than he had expected, so...(Please do heed the tags.)





	1. No Man is so Blind

**Author's Note:**

> This is not my usual happy-go-lucky fic. I do promise the violence will not be horribly graphic, and I also promise that this is not going to be a miserable ending. But if you're after happy-Tim fic, this is not the story for you!
> 
> ...sometimes I just want hurt/comfort, okay?

Raylan had seldom felt such horror as he did when Tim took a shot- an impossible, a beautiful shot, eyes sharp over his scope and then, the next moment...

 

Thirty kilos of heroin were used as a weapon, and Raylan realized that the job of a spotter was to protect the sniper, but Tim hadn't had a spotter, hadn't the whole time Raylan had known him.  Raylan had been too far away, watching the shitshow through two doorways and a room.

 

It was just Tim and the target, and now it was just Tim, target attained, blinded by white snowfall and set upon by enraged newly-widowed ninety pound tigress.

 

Even blind, he was efficient, turning his rifle and jamming the butt of it between her eyes, and Raylan got Tim while Rachel got the wife- now widow- and Art went for the fugitive.

 

He pulled Tim down the hallway, into the bathroom and turned on the water- it gurgled and coughed and came out rusty but it ran, and Tim let himself be guided, head back and eyes closed, dusted with powder-white.  He looked like a marble statue of himself, perfect and pristine until the water hit and showed flesh. It was eerie.

 

He rinsed and rinsed and then started on his clothes, Tim's chest not moving- smart man, don't breath it in, already breathed too much.  The heavy, soaked clothes parted under his hands, destroying any illusion of pristine perfection, of anything other than humanity, and broken humanity at that.

 

Tim was no statue, but the model of one, the form in flesh and the flesh in colors. All the colors it shouldn't be.  Some of the marks of brutality were fading, some fresh as- if Raylan was a judge- just last night, and all of the moments in between.

 

Rachel called that they were leaving, the widow was having a heart attack, how was Tim? and Raylan called back fine, fine, a little high- even as his mind screamed at the bruises and burns and welts  that wouldn't wash away, rusty water running like blood down his thighs and puddling at his feet- drain wasn't working, he was standing in reddish water, shivering.

 

Tim was looking at his arm, blue eyes bright in his unmarred face, his fingers pressing into a burn with something like wonder.

 

"What was in that shit?" He asked, like Tim could answer, like Tim’s brain could even function with that much heroin, turning off the fountain of blood and stripping off his own jacket to dry him.

 

He didn't know what else he said as he went to get Tim his clothes from the car- terror gripped him as he returned to an empty tub, wet footprints leading out into the hallway.  He found Tim on the second floor, looking at the walls.

 

Dressing him wasn't easy, as Tim did little to help other than remain standing- tears ran down his face and Raylan wiped them away, Tim's skin hot under his fingers. He put the jacket back on him and Tim frowned, pulling his hands into the sleeves and wrapping his arms around himself tightly.

 

He coaxed him downstairs, and Tim settled on the couch as if he meant to stay, as if it didn't reek of humanity and of decay, laying his head down on the battered arm tiredly, as if he might nap.

 

This was no place for the weary to rest.  Raylan hated this place already, hated the stark late-winter light streaming through empty window sashes and dulled by the remaining glass, falling over Tim's legs and filthy bare feet, which had already been cut by the filth of this place.

 

"Gutterson, that's filthy- come on, you need to get to the hospital."

 

Tim looked at him like he would argue, a flash of temper and personality and desperation washed away by the drugs as he laughed, "Nothing hurts. Not one," he singsonged, "Single... thing."

 

"There's some shit that should be hurting, Tim," he snapped, angry with himself, with Tim, the widow, the world, "Fuck, how didn't I see that?"

 

How did he sit next to him day in and out and fail to see abuse? Why didn't he know if Tim had a person he lived with, or loved? Or if his hobby was MMA? Or a fight club?

 

Tim's hand closed on his arm, fingers encircling it easily as he smiled, sweetly, "Oh Raylan," he drawled, "If it isn't Harlan, you're blind. And even there," he nodded, "You close your eyes. Don't worry," he said earnestly, leaning forward, "You aren't missing anything. I see everything. It's pretty shitty."

 

Raylan shook his head, "We have to go."

 

Tim sighed, swinging his feet back onto the floor and standing up. "How long until it hurts again?"

 

"I don't know," Raylan said helplessly.

 

"I don't either," Tim said, smile gone and something flat and sad in its place, "I'm tired."

 

Of what? Raylan wanted to ask, but he didn't, helping Tim across the frosty lawn and into the car, past the newly arrived CSI people.

 

Tim curled his feet under him and wrapped his arms around himself, closing his eyes as the world whizzed past the windows. Raylan rested a hand on his foot, just so he knew he wasn't alone.

 

Seemed to relax him, some.

 

He got him to the hospital - Art called to be sure, said he'd meet them there, and Raylan sat beside him in the waiting area with rusty-tasting coffee as they took Tim into the back, out of sight and Raylan's reach.

 

Art was quiet, and Raylan, restless, stood to pace.  What would they say when they came out? What would they tell Art?  Would they explain the deep bruises over his hips? The round little burns deep in his legs and the splits in his skin around his arms? How his skin was stretched tight over his insides and his bones seemed to want to get out? 

 

Would they say he'd be all right? Ask why the Marshals let this happen, voices sharp and angry, compassion burning into passion for people?

 

Art calmly drank his coffee. "He'll be fine."

 

What did Art know? Nothing, he knew what Raylan had known, as blind to it as anyone, as everyone who could help Tim.

 

 "Nothing hurts," Tim had said, had smiled, and then, "When will it start to hurt again?"

 

He wanted to shoot someone, or someones, he wanted to make them confess their sacrilege and depravity, find them guilty, and destroy them.

 

****

Tim knew he was found out when Raylan dragged him into the filthy shower by his arm, holding him under the tap and getting the worst of the drugs off of him. He'd panicked, for a second, but then it hit his lungs and - woo, he was fine.  
  
He held his breath, tilting his face back into the spray and wincing as the cold water stung his face, and Raylan's cursing took on a new note, his fingers pulling open Tim's clothes, laying his skin bare to be washed clean.  All his skin, washed clean, but the marks never came off, some because wanted them there, immortalized in ink, and some because they were carved into him, and some were going, but by the time they did a new one covered them, crossing lines over lines and bruises over burns.  
  
"Tim, my god, I-"  
  
He still couldn't breathe, the drugs were on his face and in his mouth- he was glad for it.  
  
He wasn't in any pain, and that, itself, was such a relief he could cry.  
  
Raylan pulled him out of his sodden clothes and boots, and Tim could open his eyes again, look down at himself clinically and assess the damages, and at Raylan and assess his assessment. He coughed, sucking in a breath of cold air and water, the bathroom's stink of piss, mold, and drain cleaner burning though his raw nose- he'd only gotten one breath of heroin, and by god it was enough to burn you-  
  
He touched the burn on his arm, pressing his fingers into it and watching the flesh spring back when he let go, but he couldn't feel it as pain. His knees didn't hurt either, a novelty in and of itself, and the water felt...  
  
"What was in that shit," Raylan hissed, turning off the water and pulling off his coat to dry Tim off.  
  
He felt so hot, and so cold- he could see Raylan's breath, his own when he let it out, and that was a wonderful thing, too.  
  
"Tim," Raylan's voice demanded attention, "Tim, stay in the tub. I'm gonna go get your go bag."  
  
Raylan's jacket smelled like him, and Tim folded his arms in it- but as sweet as it smelled it rubbed his skin all wrong, all raw, settling on things that didn't want touched even if they weren't hurting right now- hurt felt different with drugs, and his skin was tight and aching.  
  
He'd better be sure the rest of the house was clear.  Didn't want Raylan to be surprised like he'd been.  
  
He got out of the tub, picking his way across the floor, his feet making wet slapping noises on the broken tiles.  
  
He'd walked on worse things, he'd stepped on bodies dying, dead, and alive, but there was something about squalor that stuck to your skin the way a war zone just didn't. Got between your toes, in all the places it didn't belong.  
  
He got his gun out of his holster- nothing stopped a glock! And went to be sure the house was clear.  
  
He got distracted by the graffiti on the walls, reading about good times to be had and who sucked and who rocked and who loved who, and imagined adding his own commentary- _J hates T, fucks him anyway_ \- hey, that sorta rhymed...  
  
Raylan found him, scolded him, got him clothes and put them on even though Tim didn't help him do it, his arms weren't working and his hands were stupid and lumpy.  He cried with frustration at the return of pain, the burning of clothes against his skin and his feet cut by the floors.  
  
He would add, _T hates drugs_ to the wall, he thought, and _for a good shot, call T_...  
  
_For a good time, call Raylan_. He should write that up there. Raylan's jacket went back on Tim's shoulders, over his shirt, and it still smelled good and it still pressed on him, but he didn't care anymore, pulling it tighter, tight-tight like a straight jacket, something to hold him still, keep his insides in and the outside out.  
  
"What's going on in that head of yours?" Raylan asked, gently, "We got everybody, you made a beautiful shot, Tim... it's just you and me now."  
  
Just them now.  Just them in this house that smelled of drugs and paint thinner and piss, every bit of it full of the suffering and anger it knew. It felt so familiar that Tim slid onto the couch and tucked his feet under him, resting his head on the armrest.  
  
"Gutterson, that's filthy- come on, you need to  get to the hospital."  
  
Hospital? Why? No he didn't. Why would he need that? "Nothing hurts," he said, and giggled, "Not a single thing."  
  
"There's some shit that should be hurting, Tim,  _fuck,_  how didn't I see that-"  
  
"Oh, Raylan, if it isn't Harlan, you're blind," Tim told him, smiling at him happily.  "And there, you close your eyes.  Don't worry, Raylan-" he loved his name, the lilt and weight of it, so much better than Tim, short and harsh and cold, or Timothy, who sounded like a fucking prick, "Don't worry, you aren't missing anything. I see everything, it's pretty shitty." He patted his arm, felt the muscle beneath the sleeve- he might look wispy, but Raylan was strong as a bull.  
  
If you wanted a good time, you should call him.  
  
Call Tim if you want a good shot.

 

 

 


	2. As One Who Refuses to See

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim's good at things like lying.
> 
> He's shit at other things, like protecting himself. 
> 
> But he needs to be loved, and this is love. It is. 
> 
> It has to be.

They gave him a shot that made the pain come back all at once.  They told him it would bind the receptors, knock the heroin out of him, and boy, did it ever.

 

It wasn't fair, the pain had come little by little, creeping over him in layers, and so he could breathe, but the pile of layers was peeled back, first, leaving him bare and shivering, exposed to the world and somehow hopeful, and then...

 

It was dropped over him again, and he couldn't help that he wanted it to stop again.   

 

Not so much he wanted to take drugs, because it was drugs or his job and Tim could take pain but he couldn't take being nothing.   
  
Without work, without that structure and camaraderie...

 

He shuddered, his muscles contracting against his will to shake him, violent and  angry, the way his father would when Tim stole food from the refrigerator. His own body was betraying him.

 

Clenching his teeth, he got off the bed and dressed, yanking the clothes up to cover himself, the floor cold under his bare feet and the air from the overhead vents prickling his skin, his hair still damp from the shower.

 

He smelled like rust and flop house. 

 

He felt like death.

 

"Mr. Gutterson, if you have a minute," the doctor said, and Tim smiled charmingly, turning to her.

 

"Yes, ma'am?"

 

"We noticed some-" her lips tightened, and she waved a hand towards him.

 

"Oh, the bruises?" He shook his head, "I'm former military, I can't see my buddies without going off the deep end of a wrestling match."

 

He hadn't seen any of his friends in months, had stopped speaking to them one by one, as the effort became too great. They texted and emailed and begged him to answer, and he didn't. He couldn't. They'd see right through him, see through his facade of bravado and business. The Marshals didn't know him well enough to know... anything.

 

They hadn't known him before.

 

She looked like everyone else, like she wanted to believe him. He kept smiling for her, leaning back on the exam table, casual and easy, his hands on the sides of the table, not wrapped around his belly where they wanted to be.

 

"And you've lost weight since your last visit-"

 

"I got some food poisoning," Tim shrugged, "And I was getting too heavy anyhow."

 

"Well, you're free to go, but... if you'd like an appointment with a counselor, or a social worker?"

 

Tim laughed lightly, "No thanks!" 

 

Now, were there shoes to be had?

 

He padded out to the waiting room in wet socks, and Raylan's eyes swept over him, dark and angry.  He almost dropped his head, but he couldn't- Raylan would have to be made to disbelieve his own eyes, because Tim refused to be pitied and he would not be asked to take personal time to 'sort things out'. He raised his chin, "Did you bring my boots?"

 

"Left 'em in the flophouse. They were full of heroin- Tim, I-"

 

"Damn," Tim sighed, "They're gonna stink like cat piss and hand sanitizer when I get them back."

 

Art smiled, amused, pleased that Tim was fine and good, ready to go home to his wife and dinner.  Tim wasn't ready to go home yet, but he'd go, if only to get shoes.

 

Raylan was still looking at him, his face getting darker and darker, and Tim looked at Art, "Can you drop me off, on your way home?"

 

"Sure thing," Art said, "You got discharged?"

 

"Yep."

 

"You gonna want to try drugs again?" Worry sparked in his sharp eyes, worry Tim could deflect, and did.

 

"Heroin? Made me feel weird," Tim said, "Unnatural. No, not gonna wanna try that again.  I'd rather shoot to relieve _my_ stress." _For a good time, call Raylan.For a good shot…_

 

"Good," Art nodded, "Good." He settled his arm around Tim's shoulders and leaned on him a little, and Tim bore up under the weight of him, another layer adding to those pressing him to the ground.

 

Raylan's eyes were just one more layer to bear as he swept out past them, long legs covering ground in a motion smooth as a bird's flight, settling his hat on his head comfortably as he went.

 

Wouldn't be the first time Tim had lost a friend, but this one stung a bit, salt in a papercut.

 

He went home.

 

It was too much to hope he wouldn't be noticed, that his change of clothing would go uncommented on, that his damp hair would be overlooked.  
  
That he wouldn't be punished for being late, for not answering his texts, for being stupid and taking risks.  It was too much to hope.  
  
The day had drained the pride out of him, and he begged not to be punished, for just once, please-  
  
_Don't, you know this is the way it is, you know it's for your own good you deserve it, don't fight me, Tim, or it'll be worse._  
  
How could it be worse than this? But he didn’t fight.

If he fought, he could _hurt_ him- "So you'll remember," he said, and Tim had to stuff his face into his pillow to quiet his screams as John took a cane to him, down his legs and up onto the small of his back, the most sensitive places, where he hated to be touched with even the lightest hand, and this was worse than that, it- "You should have known better."  
  
It didn't make sense, but arguing _that_ was spitting in the wind.  
  
Another layer of pain piled on, and for the first time in years, Tim cried.  
  
He hadn't felt anything earlier, nothing hurt, and-  
  
The lonely, broken house had gotten into his skin, his lungs, coated his tongue and Raylan's hands had touched him carefully, hurting more than he could bear to be hurt.  John stopped, finally, and Tim curled on the bed, sobbing into his pillow- he heard John hiss in disgust, and didn't care.  
  
It would be better not to be loved at all than to have this, he thought wildly, but he knew that he couldn't live that way- he'd tried, he'd left and changed his number and lived alone, but the loneliness overtook him and he'd come back, and John welcomed him, like always, and loved him again.  
  
The evening passed in a haze of pain. He felt lightheaded and foggy, hot and cold. He’d have moments of clarity, and moments where he wasn’t quite sure where he was.   
  
Tomorrow, he realized, would be hell- he was scheduled to make prison transfers and court duty, and the thought of squirming through Reardon's trials... he would sit still, chin up, bear it. He was too proud not to, thank whatever made him the way he was- it was the only saving grace he had, in all of this. He was strong enough to take being loved this way, which was just as well, because it was the only love he knew.  
  
He fell asleep, escaping the pain and the hunger, going back to a place he was sure of his footing and friendships, sure of his standing and strength, his uniform a snug embrace and his rifle fitted to his hand.  
  
*  
  
Raylan scowled at the wall, the television long turned off and the book thrown aside.  'You're blind Raylan,' Tim told him, 'You close your eyes.'  
  
He'd spent so much energy and effort not wanting to be where he was, he'd missed things about his team.  Self-absorbed didn't even begin to cover what he'd been doing the last three years, and he sickened himself.  
  
What would his mother think of him, huh?  
  
What to do, though? Tell Art he thought another Marshal's home life might be shit?  Nobody wanted their boss to know that, least of all Tim.  
  
Tim the dependable, reserved, snarky son of a bitch who sat next to him day in and out and dealt with his shit.  And while he was being all introspective, he could admit it was a lot of shit.  
  
Funny how seeing someone's troubles put your own in perspective, make you see yourself different.  
  
He wasn't telling Art.  
  
Next option was to go to his house and find the person and see how they liked bein' beat, but the flaw in that plan was Tim would defend them.  There was no way he wouldn't, the loyalty and fear that made a person take the kind of punishment he was taking demanded no less than protecting their abuser.  
  
Raylan would know.  He would have killed for Arlo, when he was a boy.  In fact... the temptation had been there with Moseley, and he didn't think he'd loved that bastard a bit anymore.  
  
And when Tim refused to go? When he defended them? All that would happen is they would have ammunition to turn against Tim, a reproach and a noose around his neck.  Raylan would know, oh, he would know *that*.  
  
That left just one option, and it galled him to the core of his being.  Wait, and watch, and see.  
  
He drank to forget Tim's voice, closing his eyes and walking through the flophouse in his dream, the writing on the walls crawling and forming new words- blind, blind, blind.  
  
Tim, powder white and statuesque, was smiling where he lay on the couch, dead from his own beautiful shot between the eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That hurt to write! Please comment to let me know if you loved it, hated it, etc..


	3. Pulling it Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raylan really wants to help, now that he can see what's going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miscalculated my chapters - there will be one or two more. They're written, I need to edit, but they will come, I promise. In the meantime, a comment would mean the world to me.

Tim crawled out of bed and into the shower, looking over his shoulder at the angry red lines and bracing himself for the pain of wearing pants all day- John had already left, and he could lock the bathroom door and breathe in the warm steam, just kneel on the floor of the shower and let the water run over him.  
  
He got out and dried, putting some cream on the worst of the stripes, and some arnica on the bruise over his right hip, and dressed, layer by layer, covering and hiding.  He toweled his hair dry and combed it, tried on a smile and decided not to bother with that smiling shit today.  
  
Breakfast was on the table, a protein bar and a cup of coffee with a sweet note from John that he pocketed to read again later.  He drank the coffee and ate the bar, tidying up the kitchen before he put on his badge and gun and headed to work.  
  
Raylan walked in behind him, catching the door on his fingertips as Tim let it go, and standing silent in the elevator.  
  
He looked like shit, Tim noticed, face haggard but not hungover- sleepless, Tim decided.  
  
He'd been pulled off courtroom and transfer, and set to work in the office, and he didn't feel like arguing it- he could just stay in his chair, keep the pain unchanging. If it just didn't fluctuate, he'd be fine.  
  
Goal identified, he pushed the pain away and got to work.  
  
*  
  
Raylan wasn't blind anymore, and Miami didn't fucking matter.  
  
Well, it did, it really did, but he couldn't let his mind stay there when his team in Kentucky needed him...  When _Tim_ needed him.  
  
He was hot on Tim's heels as he came into work, and a glance at the board had Tim's shoulders relaxing a bit, some of the pinched expression settling itself.  He went to his cube and sat down, stiff for a man that young, and Raylan set about working, but watching.  
  
He watched as Tim got tired, and wondered how many of the people they worked with thought he was hung over, his answers short and savage, his back ramrod straight and his eyes bloodshot.  
  
Judging by the amount of bookslamming Rachel did, quite a few.  
  
Raylan went out and bought two sandwiches at lunch, and threw one to Tim when he got back. "Thanks," he said by way of explanation, "I owed you for that time a few weeks back."  
  
Tim took it, turning it over like an explosive device, "Didn't expect ya to... thanks, Raylan."  
  
"Mm. Welcome."  
  
Tim ate it, barely seeming to taste it, and the afternoon dragged on.  Raylan looked at him over the barricade, watching as his pale face grew paler, except a hectic flush crept across his cheekbones.  
  
Not good. Not good.  
  
*  
  
Tim was dizzy. This wasn't good.  He knew this feeling, had felt it a time or two before, a cousin to shock as his body tried to get him to rest, to let it repair itself.  The clock was moving so slow, and Tim texted John, asking to come home early and maybe they could lay down? Headache.  
  
John didn't reply but Tim didn't expect him to- but he'd be sweet, Tim knew, when he got home. Sweet and gentle and six types of kind- It was time for it, and Tim was so grateful his throat hurt.  
  
Time to go home, and he hauled himself out of his chair, and down to the elevator and to his truck.  It was still cold, and he leaned against the door of his truck for a second to catch his breath.  


The goddamn cowboy was still behind him.  Tim didn’t care.

  
"You're bleeding," Raylan said quietly behind him, his hand resting lightly on Tim's thigh, just below the curve of his ass, "Through your pants."  
  
....fuck. "Noticeable?"  
  
"If you're looking," Raylan's voice was sad, quiet, and Tim wished to fuck he hadn't told him he was blind.

He leaned his head against the cool metal, pressing his cheek against it and closing his eyes, suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to cry, or scream, neither of which he was gonna do.  
  
He just needed to catch his breath, and Raylan needed to not touch him, his hand at the small of his back now, feeling the heat radiating there.  The hand froze him, held him pinned beneath all the layers of pain and terror,  "That's new," Raylan said quietly, "Since yesterday," and Tim gasped as his fingers tugged at the fabric, going to lift his shirt.  
  
Feeling the fabric slide free made movement possible again, and he pulled away, hissing at Raylan, "We are in a goddamn parking lot! Keep your hands off!"  
  
John knew Charlie, the building security guard, if he saw, oh god...  
  
"Easy," Raylan raised his hands, "I just wanted to know it wasn't too bad. See if I could help."  
  
"Took care of it earlier," Tim pressed his back against the door, and almost groaned at the cool relief, "Thanks. Don't worry about me, I'm fine.  I'm sure it looks worse than it is, and if you hadn't seen anything, you woulda never guessed, am I right? So how bad could it be?"  
  
Raylan looked him in the eye, head tilted down and jaw clenched tight, "You are bleeding," he said quietly, "Through your goddamn _pants_."

Tim was backed up against his truck, his facade of bravado and snark in tatters at his feet, blood tacky on Raylan's fingers. Raylan looked at him, saw the pulse hammering in his throat, fear in his eyes, and realized he'd found the angle of attack against which Tim was defenseless.  
  
This was how that fucker hurt him.  
  
He stepped back, "Can I take you to my place, get a better look? It'd help me feel better."  
  
"Since when do you give a shit?" Tim asked, and Raylan shrugged, stung but not letting it show.  
  
*  
  
"You were right. I don't pay attention, and I really should. So, I'm trying." Raylan smiled at him, and Tim looked at him, searchingly, and nodded slowly, "Yeah, okay."  
  
His phone buzzed- John, and he wouldn't make it home tonight, the work was running late.  
  
Mark texted not five seconds later, confirming it for Tim, and also assuring him he'd let him know when John left the site.  
  
He deleted Mark's texts, and answered John's, and looked up at Raylan, straight into warm whiskey eyes. "Yeah, okay," he repeated, "I'll swing by."  
  
Probably stupid, definitely going to get him in trouble, but some part of him wanted yesterday back, the part of yesterday where somebody knew he was hurt and cared- and hadn't been the one to hurt him in the first place.  
  
On the drive over he told himself it was wrong, to use Raylan like this, it was wrong to trust him and it was just putting him at risk, but...  
  
When Raylan held the door open, and motioned to the bed, unbuttoning his sleeves, Tim found he couldn't care about how wrong he was.  
  
Lay on the bed? It felt wrong, it felt intimate, and he closed his eyes for just a second- did he want to do this?  
  
He wanted it to stop hurting.  
  
Dry-mouthed, he unbuttoned his shirt and pants and pulled them aside to let Raylan see, hissing as dried blood pulled loose from fabric, reopening the welts.  His belt had rubbed him raw, and he burned at the exposure to air as he lowered himself to the bed, and Raylan tugged the pants even lower, and rested his fingers on the elastic of his boxers, "Can I?"

Tim gritted his teeth and nodded- Raylan looked at his face, at the wet lashes and swallowed hard. He eased the underwear down to Tim's knees, and hissed at the tearing away of the scabs. "Okay," he said softly, "Okay."  
  
His eyes stung as he looked at the new wounds, layered over old- and lightly touched the edge of one swollen line, frowning.  This wasn't a belt...  
  
"What did he use?"  
  
"Cane. It's new."  
  
...fuck. "Oh," Raylan said, breathless with rage at this fucker purchasing- not just spur of the moment anger, tearing off his belt or picking up a cord, this took thought- _purchasing_ a torture implement for Tim.  
  
He went into the bathroom for his medkit Winona had bought him, telling him if he was gonna be old and stupid he'd need bandaids.  He'd added to it as he stayed longer in this shithole, and he pulled out some antibacterial pain relieving gel he'd bought after that last road rash incident.  
  
Tim was shivering, his hands fisted into the blanket and Raylan rested his left hand on the middle of his back, his thumb rubbing small circles higher up his back, where he remembered him being mostly unmarked, and said softly, "Easy, easy, I ain't gonna hurt you.  You want to put this on yourself?"  
  
"I should-"  
  
"Fuck should," Raylan said, "But if you can't handle me touchin' you, if this is too much-" Tim shook his head, closing his eyes tightly, tears or sweat on his face.  "After this," Raylan said, "Some Advil, hmm?"  
  
Tim nodded and Raylan set to work, first with a cool cloth to clean away blood- Tim made a strangled sobbing sound at his first touch, the muscles in his back going rigid- Raylan kept working, making soft hissing noises between his teeth, something of a memory of Boyd's hands cleaning up his face skittering around the back of his mind.  
  
He took his time smoothing the salve over each stripe, paying special attention to the open ones still oozing blood, and settled back when he was done. "Help any?"  
  
"It's better," Tim managed to say, his voice shaking.  
  
God, Raylan hated the sound of it.

"Good," Raylan said, setting the cloth and salve aside, easing Tim's clothes back into place and wiping his hands clean before getting some Advil and a glass of water.  
  
Tim got up and finished tidying himself , moving slow, and Raylan watched silently as the evidence was hidden, the vulnerable, defeated Tim putting on the coworker Tim with sharp eyes and sharper tongue.  
  
He held out the water and pills and tim took them, "I should get going," he said, "But thank you."  
  
"Yeah," Raylan said, "Well." He didn't want thanks for it. He had been blind for so damn long. "Call if you need anything."  
  
"I won't," Tim said, "But thanks. It was just..." he seemed at a loss for words for a moment, "New," he settled on, nodding to himself, "Just new."  
  
Raylan bit his tongue hard as Tim slipped out into the dusk, climbing back into his truck and pulling out the drive.  
  
He rubbed his face, unable to think of anything but the way Tim trembled under his touch.  
  
*  
Tim went home, and had plenty of time to clean up the kitchen, eat a bowl of cereal, do the laundry- including the clothes he was wearing- make dinner for John and slip into shorts and a loose tshirt.  He checked to be sure nothing would smell different, no signs he'd been to Raylan's other than the odometer of his truck having eight miles more than it needed, but then, he could have gone to the park like he did sometimes... no use trying to figure on John, just go with it.  
  
He checked his phone, Mark sending him a picture of cats with bazookas- he didn't delete the message, but didn't reply, and when John came home he handed him his beer, got out of his way, and let him eat.  John smiled at him, pulling him in and onto his lap, hands stroking up and down his back to his thighs, big and rough and heavy, and Tim hid his face in John's neck to not show the pain, feeling the soft rumble of his laugh through his chest.  
  
"How's your head?"  
  
"Eh," Tim shrugged, "Took Advil. Think I'm just tired, might be gettin' sick."  
  
"You should stay home tomorrow," John said, "If you think you're getting sick."  
  
Aw, hell, he didn't wanna stay home! "Could just be allergies," he said mildly, "Probably is. Advil will take care of it."  
  
"If it still hurts tomorrow, you stay the fuck home," John said, his fingers digging into the backs of Tim's thighs, right into the welts he’d left.  
  
"Yeah, okay, okay John, I will," Tim managed to gasp, and his hold relaxed, sliding to petting him again, fingertips toying with the edge of his shirt, sliding up underneath.  
  
Tim closed his eyes and wrapped around him as John picked him up and carried him to the bedroom, and he thought about gentle hands easing his clothes aside and soothing, asking, not taking.  
  
Pleasure was another kind of pain, a preferable one, yes, but John was as adept at wringing the one from him as the other.  He lay boneless on the bed, pressed close to his lover, struggling to catch his breath again, grateful that the lights were out and John already half-asleep, worn out from the day's work, fucking Tim, and...  
  
The sedative Tim had slipped into his food.  It was just enough to make John sleepy, and he couldn't risk it often, but he'd needed...  
  
Tim needed a rest, and he'd have it, now.

  



	4. Escapism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The honeymoon period is sometimes the worst.

The honeymoon period dragged on, and Tim watched as his skin closed and smoothed and went from angry red to sullen purple, marks older still silvering and only showing when the light hit him just so. He pulled at his skin to see them, remind himself they were there and that they would come again when he fucked things up again, which was inevitable.  
  
It took longer than usual, and Tim considered deliberately provoking him just to get it over with! But he didn't.  
  
He was too much a coward.  
  
In the end, he wished he had.  
  
*  
The Marshal office picnic wasn't Raylan's favorite thing, but he accepted the necessity of it, arriving late and staying back a moment, watching as Nick tried to keep up with Art's youngest, and Rachel made eyes at her new boyfriend.  
  
Where was Tim? There he was, fading into the background like a person in a genuine Hitler painting, no face to speak of, beside a man taller than Raylan, and built strong and square, his arm around Tim's shoulders, holding him there as sure as a leash.  
  
"Raylan!" Art said cheerily, having already started on the mixed drinks, "Have you met Tim's partner, John?"  
  
His name was John, and Raylan shook his hand, accepting the attempt at crushing without so much as flinching, looking him over and seeing him for what he was.  He was strong, and Raylan felt his skin crawl at the thought of how much power those hands would bring to an implement like a cane or even a belt- he met Tim's eyes and saw helplessness behind the smile that was so strained at the edges he thought it might snap.  
  
"Without John we'd never get Tim to one of these things, antisocial as he is," Art said fondly, "John drags him out."  
  
The image of that man dragging Tim by his arm flashed through the back of his mind, sharp and stabbing bright as the onset of a migraine, "Nice to meet you," he said to him, because less than that would cause trouble for Tim, "And what do you do for a livin'?" The tattoo on the back of his arm proclaimed him to be always faithful, and what tiny shred of himself that had once been a Marine- long since set aside, subsumed by the Marshal, and never strong enough to be one of the brotherhood- curled its lip in disgust.  
  
"I'm a contractor, I work in construction," he said, smiling and he'd be charming if Raylan wasn't looking straight at him.  
  
If it hadn't been for thirty kilos of heroin, he'd like this guy, whose hands on Tim looked affectionate, whose gaze seldom wavered off of him the few times Tim slid out from under him- to get him a plate of food, to get him a drink, and Raylan watched too, set back from the others at a table with Nelson's family.  
  
He watched as Tim picked at a plate of food, silently swallowed every drink he was handed and watched John.  He didn't cringe as the man stroked fingers along the back of his neck, when he laced their fingers together and playfully pulled Tim along after him.  
  
There wasn't a single thing playful about his gaze as he looked at Raylan, and Raylan settled back, leaning his elbows on the tabletop, spreading his knees, smiling at him like a shark.  He wasn't playing either.  
  
John's eyes darkened and his hand tightened on Tim\- Raylan's heart jumped to his throat as Tim looked up at John, his face questioning and for a half-second, half-frightened, confused.  
  
He didn't know what he'd done, and Raylan looked away, furious with himself for letting it be about him.  Dammit.  
  
He was no fucking closer to being any help than he'd been, shoving Tim under the showerhead in that flop house.  
  
*  
Tim felt John's hand clench around his arm and knew long sleeves were in his near future. "John?"  
  
"Did you think I wouldn't see?" He snarled, and Tim looked around, trying to find...  
  
Raylan. Oh, no. He felt himself pale, "See what?"  
  
"When we get home," John hissed, "You are in so much trouble. Go," he let go of Tim's arm, "Get me another beer, and come back."  
  
"We can go now-"  
  
"Worried I'll see something you don't want me to?"  
  
Tim went for the beer, collecting it numbly from the ice water, returning to John's side like a homing pigeon.  
  
No wonder those poor things went extinct.  
  
His stomach clenched in knots, tension twisting his shoulders and any hope for a good weekend shot to hell.  Raylan's eyes were on him as much as John's, and if he could just...  
  
Fuck it, he was fucked anyways, and he might as well get fucked up for something he did as for something John thought he did. So he slid out from under John's arm, and went to play a few rounds of Calvin ball with the kids.  
  
Escapist? Sure. But worth every second.

*

Three days later, and he was still waiting. 

The other shoe was gonna drop. John had been furious at the picnic, fucking him roughly in the men's bathroom even after Tim had… well, he hadn’t said _no_ , but he sure hadn’t made it easy - and John hadn’t even tried to get Tim off (which was a first), for which some part of him felt grateful... and another part, a new part, whispered that see? He didn't do it for love, this wasn't love, Tim,  _Tim_ _, wake up!_ But that voice was still so small Tim could stifle it... and he had more to worry about, because John was angry-  
  
And hadn't done anything yet.  Tim was on tenterhooks.  He couldn't eat or sleep, waiting.  But every time he would open his mouth to ask John to just- just punish him, already, he knew he'd fucked up!- he closed it, that tiny part of him screaming that he hadn't been wrong.  
  
He hadn't done anything worth being whipped for.  
  
( _Now,_ that voice said reasonably as he lay next to John, his arm heavy over Tim's belly, fingers curved around his hip, _if you had done what you thought about doing... if you'd called Raylan, and had a good time... well, that might be different and you would deserve it, but you didn’t, so you were good_.)  
  
So he didn't speak. He went to work, he took care of the house and made John food and gave him everything he wanted, but he didn't ask, and John got angrier, and angrier.  
  
He was waiting, Tim knew.  
  
Well, this was one time he hadn't been wrong and he wouldn't say he was, until he had to.  
  
He still loved him, after all.  
  
*  
Raylan watched as Tim got pale, and his cheeks hollowed out.  He'd never been a big man, but he was vanishing before Raylan's eyes, now that he was looking.  Somehow, he was still working- in fact, he was a goddamn machine.  
  
Art looked at Raylan helplessly- they both saw the same thing but his performance wasn't faltering- if anything, he was better than he'd been, razor sharp focus and silent, deadly hunting.  
  
He looked for wounds, a stutter in his step, and there was nothing.  He probably could have gotten in trouble for the times he lingered in the locker room to see him change- Tim looked him in the eye as he did it, something of his old shit-kicking smile in his eyes.  
  
There was no getting a rise out of him- he was partnered with Nelson and Nelson said he was _nice._  
  
Tim wasn't nice.  
  
*  
Mark clenched his teeth and slid away, his face pale and hands shaky.  He didn't even feel his leg as he walked down the crossbeams to the lift, took it down to the ground and clocked out.  
  
He'd been planning to go see his dealer, pay off the last bit he owed, but... he could wait even if he'd charge him more.  
  
Mark would pay it.  This couldn't wait.  
  
He couldn't risk calling Tim, or texting him, but he could go to his work at the courthouse.  
  
Mark was a goddamn army Ranger, he could get around one fucking security guard snitch- and he didn't need a gun.  
  
Sure enough, Charlie was distracted and Mark slid up the stairs, leg be fucking damned- elevator was too risky, closed in, people he didn't know- and made for the Marshal's office.  
  
Tim was his _brother_. He owed him his life, his leg, his goddamn sobriety...  
  
And that piece of shit his brother loved more than he hated and cared for more than he was afraid of was going to try to... his mind shied away. No.   
  
Not while Mark was alive and could fight for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make my day!


	5. Ain't no Grave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all comes to a head.

Raylan glanced up as a young man- well-built, dark hair and eyes, walking too fast for his right leg's strength.  His eyes were sharp, like Tim's, and flicked over him, over the room, resting on Tim's empty desk.  
  
"Where," he said, stopping in front of Raylan,"Is Gutterson?"  
  
"Who wants to know?" Raylan leaned back, fixing him with a look.  Could he be one of John's friends, here to check up on Tim?  
  
The man looked at Raylan's desk tag again, "Mark Scarponi. I was his spotter in Afghanistan. He trusts you- how did you get that? Tim doesn't trust easy."  
  
Raylan blinked, surprised at who this man was- and his assumption that Tim trusted him.  He did trust Raylan, he realized suddenly, had he before that house? Before Raylan led him, blind, through that flophouse and saw what Tim tried to hide.  "I'm not sure," he replied, "Do you need to talk to him?"  
  
"Yes." His hand moved abortively, "But the security guard downstairs can't know I'm here."  
  
"Uh... why?"  
  
"You've met John? Or at least... you don't miss much, I don't think. He watches Tim, everywhere. Especially here." His smile wasn’t happy.   
  
Holy _shit._ Holy **shit,** he would shoot that man in the heart and then a few times in the balls.  "I'll take you to Tim, and we'll miss Charlie."

They found Tim exiting a courtroom, looking downright cranky.  He saw them, and his face went even paler, "Is he okay?" He asked Mark, "God, tell me he isn't- I haven't heard anything from him all day, is he-"  
  
"He's fine," Mark said tersely, "Somewhere private, Tim?"  
  
Raylan steered them into an empty courtroom and shut the door.  Tim looked at Mark, eyes dark and half-wild.  
  
"You can't go home," Mark said quietly, "Promise me you won't go home, Tim."  
  
"...what? Why?"  
  
"It isn't safe, I..." Mark reached out and touched Tim's wrist, gently, "You know I wouldn't lie to you, Tim."  
  
"No, you wouldn't," Tim agreed immediately, eyes flickering to Raylan, "What's going on? He's been angry, but he won't... he won't actually hurt me, Mark, you know that."  
  
" _I_ don't," Raylan muttered, feeling sick. What was 'actually hurt' if it wasn't torn and bleeding?  
  
"I don't know how to tell you this, and have you believe me," Mark said helplessly, "Tim, I knew he was rough, and controlling, but I... fuck, Tim." He ran his hands through his hair, wildly, staring at the floor.   
  
"What's going on?" Tim leaned forward, going tight.   
  
"I overheard him," Mark said, sitting down, tugging Tim to sit down, and he obeyed, mechanically, eyes fixed now on Mark.  Raylan kept his back pressed to the doors, arms crossed and wishing he could shoot that fucker. "Talking to his buddies, on lunch. He's angry. Says you've cheated."  
  
Tim looked offended, “I wouldn’t. You _know_ I wouldn’t-“  
  
"Tim," Mark interrupted, "I don't care. I don't. I wish you would. That isn't it. He showed around pictures. Of you. And invited them… alla them over. Said if you wanted more cock, then..." he licked his lips, unable to look up at Tim.   
  
Tim swayed, his face bloodless and hands clutching at Mark and the back of the seat in front of him. "No, he wouldn't, he-"  
  
"Tim, he did." Mark's voice was gentle, his hand resting on Tim's shoulder, thumb brushing his neck. "I'm so sorry."

Raylan bit the inside of his cheek and stared hard at the ceiling until his eyes stopped stinging.  Tim made a broken little sound against Mark's chest, and when he looked over at the pair of them, he wasn't surprised to see Mark holding him, a hand cradling the back of his head as Tim hid his face.  
  
He looked so goddamn small.  Wasn't supposed to look like that.  
  
"You're sure?" His voice was pleading and soft, but Raylan could tell he knew it was true.    
  
"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't, Tim," Mark said, "I stopped by your place and got some of your stuff- shit he wouldn't notice- and I have it in my car.  You can come home with me, tonight."  
  
"I'd rather go home," Tim said, "And show 'em that just because I love him, I'm not... I'm not weak. I wouldn’t let them, I’d fight, and-“  
  
"That would be stupid," Mark said, " What would Sarge Humvee say if he could see you?"  
  
"That's rich, coming from *you*."  
  
"Hey, I know I got problems," Mark said, "You can be a nasty little bitch at me all you want to be, I can take it, but I will pin you on the ground if you try to go home and pick a fight with those fuckers."  
  
"You couldn't." Tim didn't sound certain.  
  
"He could," Raylan replied drily, "Given that I'm pretty sure you've lost five pounds this past week alone, and he looks like he pumps iron for fun."  
  
"Rivet steel, actually, but same difference," Mark smiled at him and Raylan decided he liked him.  
  
Tim pulled away from Mark, "I don't want-"  
  
"Tim," Mark said, "How many times have you helped me, when I needed you? Let a man pay his debts, will you?"  
  
Tim nodded, "Okay, I... okay."  
  
"Good. I'm gonna go home- when you're done, come on by."  
  
"Okay."  
  
Mark stood, nodded at Raylan- his expression said plenty about what Raylan needed to do- and slipped out.  Tim stared into middle space, his shoulders slumped and eyes empty, until he shook himself, standing up and sliding past Raylan to go back to the office.  
  
He didn't do much the rest of the day, not that Raylan could blame him.  
  
Raylan didn't even try to hide that he followed Tim to Mark's, and made sure he went in, making eye contact with Mark and nodding.  
  
Yeah, he'd keep watch, for his part.  
  
*  
  
Sergeant Neal Hummel- Humvee was known among the Rangers as a gentle giant- good natured, easy going, almost too soft to be a Ranger- until you ran into the steel that made him such an effective NCO.  
  
He cared about his boys- even the ones who caused trouble- and when Mark Scarponi called him, he picked up, certain that he was off the drug deep end again.  
  
He didn't expect to hear that Gutterson- his sane, sharp, snarky son of a bitch with more fire than ice, the baby of the squad- was in trouble.  Scarponi laid it out, choking on rage, painting a picture Humvee didn't like one bit.  
  
He made phone calls, and his boys- Tim's brothers in arms- answered.  Nobody hurt their baby brother.  
  
Nobody set up a gang rape for their sniper and went unpunished.

They waited for the men in Tim’s living room, and beat the hell out of every man who came to the house intent on harming their boy. They meted out justice brutally and efficiently, not wasting time or breath on whys or how or who. Nobody was in the dark about why they were getting the shit kicked out of them, each man dealt a brutal ball-breaking kick to the groin as two rangers held them down, legs spread, and a third stomped.  Then, each of them signed a confession before they were released.  
  
Not a single one dared call the cops.    
  
Meanwhile, elsewhere, court was held. John was tied to a chair, facing the jury and executioner.  
  
Humvee looked through his phone, read the messages sent to Tim, the emails, looked at the pictures of what he'd done without letting his face change.  He’d listened to Mark.  He knew this man’s measure.  
  
He looked at the others and nodded- guilty.  
  
The Rangers filed out, and the Hell's Angels filed in.  
  
None of them spoke.  They didn't need to.  
  
They had done what they came for, and this wasn't a mission they could win.  It had already been lost. It hadn't been about winning, anyways.  
  
It had been about leaving a brother behind.

There would be no finding the body.

*

Tim stayed another night with Mark, and then Mark told him it was safe to go home.  His eyes were worried but he didn't say anything.  
  
He went home, looking around at his house- it was clean, tidy as if he'd just been there, and he went from room to room, looking at it.  
  
The bedding had been washed, the bed remade with military sharp corners, and he sank to his knees next to the bed, buried his face in the comforter and cried.  
  
He'd loved him, and hated him, and feared him, and he was _gone_.  Tim knew without asking, without looking or calling or being called- he never would be, he wasn't John's emergency contact, no, but John had been _his_ \- he was gone. He was dead.  
  
He'd been dead since the moment he met Tim, since that first time he'd hit him, since he'd offered Tim's body to his friends as punishment when Tim hadn't done anything wrong.  
  
Was there anything wrong enough to deserve that?  Tim shivered, aware that he would have fought, and lost, and he wouldn't have pressed charges, by the time John was done he would have agreed... He was in too deep.  He had been. He wasn't, anymore. He'd been pulled out, and looking back, he could see it, all those things that weren't right but had seemed to be at the time, when John explained-  
  
John was dead. Tim was alone.  
  
He closed his eyes and let his mind wander, and it led him to that damn flop house- for a good time, call Raylan.  
  
For a good shot, call Tim.  
  
For abuse- his mind shied away but the little voice that was getting stronger forced it to write it on the walls- for abuse, call John.  
  
For help...  
  
Call Sergeant Humvee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all she wrote, folks! I hope you've... enjoyed? Maybe? This story. A comment would make my day, if you're inclined to leave one, even just saying you read it!

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to comment! Love it? hate it? Thoughts?


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